


with all my imperfections on my head

by orphan_account



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Angst, Character Death, M/M, this is what you get for not specifying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-01
Updated: 2017-07-01
Packaged: 2018-11-21 19:11:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11363808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: It began, like all good tragedies do, as a fairytale.





	with all my imperfections on my head

**Author's Note:**

  * For [child_of_the_fandoms](https://archiveofourown.org/users/child_of_the_fandoms/gifts).



It was raining the day they met, and Alex Hamilton stumbled into the cafe for the first time soaking wet, his hoodie clinging to his thin frame, blinking raindrops from his lashes. John Laurens, framed in curls and coffee, thought he was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

It happened in slow motion, like a scene in a movie; music playing low and staticky over the speakers, the artistic lamplight leaving streaks of gold in Alex's dark hair, the smell of coffee and fresh-baked bread, the sound of the rain outside. They made eye contact across the room, and Alex smiled. His eyes were wide and overbright, his smile halfway between shy and confident. John grinned back, curls falling in his face.

"That was a feelings look," Angelica teased, once Alex had ordered his coffee (black, two sugars) and left. Thomas chucked, low in his throat, and flung an arm around his shoulders. Eliza winked from behind the bakery counter, giggling.

They were nervous, John could see it in their tense smiles, in the way Thomas' hip was digging into John's side, in Angelica's knuckles going pale around the handle of one of the machines, in Eliza quietly reorganizing the already immaculate display case. John fidgeted with his name badge, and Eliza bumped him with her hip.

"We don't mind," she said, and that was the real beginning, the first chapter of the storybook, the embellished first letter. It began, not when their eyes locked, not when the sparks flew, not when their fingers brushed as he handed over the coffee cup, but when John looked around at his family, built out of ash and tears and coffee, and saw them smiling at the thought of the fairytale romance laying itself out before them.

Alex came back the next day, his sweatshirt still damp from the rain of the day before, his hair in a half-finished braid.

"Large coffee, black with two sugars." John said, leaning over the counter to hand Alex a cup and a brown paper bag. "And a muffin, because Eliza makes really nice muffins."

Alex beamed. "You remembered! And thanks for the muffin. Hi Eliza. You're John, right? Yeah, John. Sorry for rushing in and out yesterday, I was late for class. I'm not in college, I just take political sciences classes in the afternoon. Anyway, I meant to stop and chat, or come back, but I didn't want to bother you, or get in the way of anything. I'm not good at social cues. Hey, you want to-"

"Dinner?" John interrupted, with a soft smile. 

"When do you get off work?" Alex reached out to tuck one of John's curls behind his ear. Angelica muffled a laugh and stuck her elbow into John's ribs.

"He gets off at seven, he likes pizza if you're on a budget, and Italian food if you're not."

John flushed beneath his freckles. "Angelica, you don't have to-"

"Yes I do." It was so matter-of-fact that Alex laughed, a silvery sound that felt like electricity down John's spine.

"I'll see you then." He said, and then he was gone, like the wind had blown him away. His braid had come undone in the time it took for their story to begin, and John drew him later, in charcoal and graphite, with his hair loose over his shoulders.

 

The rest, (or most of the rest) as they say, was history.

Alex ordered pizza, and they ate in his near-empty living room, sitting cross-legged on the carpet, talking. Alex Hamilton was an orphan, living alone on the little money he could make from freelance writing, taking college classes on a scholarship, letting himself be swept along by the political tension in the city. He survived off of takeout and coffee, talked entirely too much, wrote in every spare moment, and lived like he would die tomorrow.

John Laurens had painted a pride flag on the wall of his bedroom, packed a bag, and crawled out the window to a new life. He'd wandered into the cafe, coming for the warm food and employment, staying for the family he met there. He talked about his friends (Thomas draping himself over John's lap like a lanky magenta cat, Angelica's long rants about the feminism, Eliza's baking skills and quiet piano playing,) Alex talked about his classmates (Samuel Seabury and his long, repetitive speeches, James Madison and the essay project, George Washington and his refusal to stop calling him 'son',) and John woke up the next morning with a worn blanket thrown over him and Alex scribbling in a notebook.

John looked over his shoulder, and in the moment before Alex jerked it out of sight, he saw his name, and smiled.

They had their first kiss on a park bench at midnight, two weeks and six dates (most like the first) later, awkwardly holding hands and shifting closer until they were so close that their noses brushed, everything out of focus from the lack of distance (there was a metaphor there somewhere).

"Can I kiss you?" Alex asked, and John smiled. His skin was bronze in the lamplight, his freckles clear enough to count.

"Yes." He said, and that was the beginning of chapter two.

 

"New York is the greatest city in the world." Alex declared, and John kissed him before he replied.

"It is pretty great. Except for the gangs, and the smog, and..." he let himself sprawl across the carpet, lilting his voice into a poor imitation of Alex's drunk slurring. "... the  _people_ , the goddamn  _people_ , they're all so  _fucking stupid_."

Alex shoved him. "I was drunk, shut u-ack!" he didn't have a chance to finish, John dragging him down into a sloppy, laughing kiss. They fell together, even their movements reflecting the perfect puzzle-piece way their stories connected.

Chapter two started and ended in bliss, but as with all good fairytales, tragedy tainted it.

 

In the end, (not the very end, that came later) John was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.

From the end to the very end, Alex wondered what he could have done to change it.

 

The night didn't stay in any of their memories, just fragments. The mechanically calm voice over the phone, telling them (Alex, Angelica, Eliza, Thomas) that something (everything) was wrong. Everyone in the waiting room in their pajamas, except for Alex, still in his hoodie and jeans and sneakers. White knuckles, gripping each other's hands. John's voicemail message. The red-brown stain on the doctor's coat.

Blood, on John's chest, on his hands, on the gloves of the nurses, on the paper sheets. Red and stark and real.

The sound of Eliza's knees hitting the tiles, the rustle of fabric as Angelica sank down to comfort her, Thomas' shuddering breaths, Alex's silence.

The machine flatlining.

Screaming.

 

They all went back to John's apartment, after, curled up on the couch, a tangle of limbs. Like the beginning, the end felt like a movie. White noise in their ears, warm skin and rough fabric that none of them really felt. Blank, awful numbness.

They unlocked from each other when the sun rose. Eliza, methodically, moved to the kitchen to make breakfast. Thomas twisted his fingers into his hair and drew his knees up to his chest, staring blankly at something no one else could see. Angelica locked herself in the bathroom and cried so that she could be strong later, emerged with her makeup streaked and her jaw set.

Alex didn't move. He stayed where the movement of his others had left him, breathing slowly, in and out. It couldn't be real. Fairytales didn't end like this.

_Hans Christian Anderson_ his mind supplied, in a voice that was almost John's.  _Those were fairy tales, and they ended in tragedy._

 

 

He let Eliza coax him into eating, let Angelica help him out of his jeans and into a pair of sweatpants, let Thomas brush the knots from his hair.

 

They all went back the cafe together, on a rainy afternoon, and Alex locked eyes from across the room with someone behind the counter who was once there and never would be again.

"John," he said, and cried.

 

It ended, like all good fairytales do, as a tragedy.


End file.
